


What We Saw From The Cheap Seats

by Suaine



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M, Stephen King References, no zombies but close enough
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 03:40:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21421579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suaine/pseuds/Suaine
Summary: It's February 2016, Beverly Marsh is in New York for fashion week, and the world is about to end.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 11
Kudos: 29





	What We Saw From The Cheap Seats

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Apocalypse AU brilliantly drawn by @pngdraws on twitter, and added to by the equally genius @bonesbubs. Please check out their work, this is merely a pale reflection of their gorgeous talent.
> 
> [Apocalypse AU](https://twitter.com/pngdraws/status/1190020019947749385) by @pngdraws  
[Apocalypse AU](https://twitter.com/pngdraws/status/1190020194615332864) by @pngdraws
> 
> [Apocalypse AU](https://twitter.com/bonesbubs/status/1192939559388102657) by @bonesbubs
> 
> There are more pics all over those threads and they're all gorgeous and heartwrenching. Check them out!

+

The Good news is that it’s not zombies.

+

**Saturday, 13th of February 2016**

Beverly Marsh is going to murder a bitch. She’s been furious with the scheduling ever since she found out she’d be up right after Jérôme LaMaar for the runway at fashion week. He’s been sweet about it, because next to her uninspired collection, his work is just going to fucking shine. It’s easy being gracious when you know you’re good. And he’s fantastic. She’s jealous as hell and not afraid to admit it.

Half of her models are late. It’s a disaster. She bustles around backstage, trying to get the most important pieces fitted and at least some of the models to look like they want to be here. There’s a persistent cacophony of coughing in the background that Bev is trying to ignore. They’re all going to come down with the flu, with all of the models in such tight quarters. It’s a breeding ground for germs.

“Hey,” Bev yells at a passing woman with a clipboard. “Have you seen Gina? Is she here yet?” The woman shakes her head, a grimace of distaste firmly set on her face.

“We have twenty calling in sick, thirteen in the back throwing up. At this rate, you’re lucky if they let you show at all.”

Bev sighs and tries to center herself. Panic is not going to help. Jérôme is walking past, looking dazed but not in a good way. She taps his arm to get him to notice her. He smiles. “Hey,” he says and she can tell he has no idea who she is. Why would he? Her clothes sell, but they’re not… they’re not magical, the way his work is. She’s too commercial.

“Are you okay?” She was going to ask something else, but he looks like he’s about to keel over. “Wait, here, come here, sit down.” She leads him to one of the plush coffee table setups and he pours into the chair. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on his face. She grabs one of the water bottles from a nearby craft table and puts it in his hand. “Try to drink that.”

She looks around, really takes it all in this time, and this isn’t the normal hustle of fashion week. This is real panic. Assistants are flittering about, trying to get people to sit or lie down. Whatever this is, it’s fast. Some of those girls were fine maybe thirty minutes ago. Beverly touches her own forehead, but it’s fine. Dry, warm but not hot. She’s okay.

There’s a TV in one of the dressing rooms and she flips through channels to find some kind of news, and as she lands on NBC for a moment, everything in her world flips sideways.

That’s Richie. Richie Tozier. Two minutes ago she wouldn’t have been able to pick him out of a lineup, wouldn’t have known that he used to wear those same ugly glasses in middle-school, and oh, he looks old, but it’s him.

She actually does feel queasy now, but she’s dead certain it’s got nothing to do with whatever is going around right now. She’s remembering.

Richie and his too big mouth, and her, and the others, going down a well to fight a monster. Holy shit. It’s real. She remembers both all at once and in tiny waves of moments. She remembers Bill and how much she loved him, and Ben who was so sweet, and Eddie, Stan and Mike. They’re all she can think about, the things they did together, the friendship they thought would be forever.

TV Richie is plugging his SNL debut, with humor that doesn’t reach his eyes, and Bev wonders if he knows. If he forgot, the same way she did. She can’t believe she fucking forgot the clown.

There’s yelling around her now, and the ant-hill activity of a fashion show has been replaced by something even more primal. People are rushing for the doors, at least those who can still walk. How long has Bev been staring at the TV? There’s actual news on it now, but it’s clearly taped, they’re talking about the city’s problem with fare evasion and homelessness.

She knows two things: she needs to find Richie and they have to get out of New York. Quickly. She grabs a coat and thanks her lucky stars for sensible shoes and heads for the doors.

+

Traffic in New York is always a problem and Eddie sometimes wonders if he drives just because it gives him a way to live out his anger. He’s on the phone with Myra, who hasn’t been feeling well, apparently.

“I have no idea what it is,” she says, breathing heavily. “It started so suddenly.”

Eddie has a few ideas, but he’s not a doctor. “Sounds like the flu,” he says absently, while trying to thread his car through a very thin needle-head. He’s hitting the gas hard to make it across the intersection and that is probably no longer a green light, if the honking is anything to go by. He yells at the other cars, just on principle.

“I feel like I’m burning up,” Myra whines, and he does feel a pang of sympathy, despite her usual theatrics. She sounds rough and the flu is nothing to joke about.

“Myra, you should call the doctor. Take some ibuprofen and get them to take you to the ER. I’m sure it’s fine, but they can give you some fluids and monitor your heart.”

He’s only mildly worried. Myra usually makes him go through all this and he’s pretty much always fine. It’s one of those false alarms. Traffic is getting weirder, cars jumping lanes for no reason, and the pedestrians are all over the place. A lot of them are running.

Eddie isn’t the most observant but even he can tell there’s something going on. “Call the doctor, Myra,” he says, and hangs up the phone. There’s a wall of cars in front of him, nothing moving, so maybe there was some kind of pile-up. He’s tapping on his steering wheel, a nervous tick he allows himself, it’s better than biting his nails.

The shock of impact drives him forward into his steering wheel and his head hits the windshield he was trying to look out of. Something big crashed into his rear, looks like a truck of some kind. He’s just about to get out when a woman with long, flaming-red hair jumps over the front of his car. He meets her eyes and she’s frowning, determined, something in the set of her mouth is so familiar.

And then it hits him.

“Bev,” he mouths, like a magic spell that tears loose whatever it was in his mind that kept all the memories locked up. His eyes go wide and he’s suddenly very, very afraid.

Beverly Marsh looks at him, her head cocked, and she knocks on his driver-side window. He opens it with a ball of fear in his stomach. “Eddie Kaspbrak?” She sounds unsure.

Eddie nods. “Bev. Beverly Marsh. Oh my god.”

Bev straightens. “Okay, so it’s three of us. We have to get out, right now. And we have to find Richie.”

Eddie goes very still. Richie Tozier. Richie. Richie is in New York. Fuck.

+

Richie makes his way to the news desk like an absolutely normal person who is not, at this moment, having a breakdown. He’s always nervous about going live in front of an audience so he figured when people started getting sick that this was the same thing because hey, he totally had a date with the porcelain god this morning.

What’s happening right now isn’t normal though. He’s seen enough creepy movies about the end of the world that he knows something is up.

He catches a frazzled looking Anderson Cooper by the arm. They’ve had enough to do with each other for Richie’s special appearance last year that Cooper doesn’t immediately shake him off. “Hey, uh, Richie, what’s up?”

Richie frowns. “I was going to ask you that. There’s something really wrong here and I would like to know what you know.”

Cooper looks around and shakes his head. “Alright,” and he leads Richie to one of the small offices that writers use to freak out about deadlines in peace. It’s empty. “Here, read this.” Cooper hands him a printout of an email from a CDC account.

“Immediate quarantine,” Richie reads out loud as he skims. “Suggested drastic action to contain the spread of the illness. Fuck, what’s happening?”

Cooper shrugs, and his eyes look fucking dead. “In a couple of minutes we’re supposed to run emergency broadcasts on all networks. It’s an outbreak, and it’s bad, but we don’t know any more than that.”

Richie looks at the door. “Are people going to die?”

Cooper sighs. “I really hope not, but it’s not looking good. How are you feeling?”

Richie feels fine, so far. There’s panic curling at the bottom of his spine, but other than that he’s probably okay. “Nothing that I can’t explain with the mortal terror I’m currently experiencing.”

“Good,” Cooper says, and opens the door. “You should probably get out of here while you can. Once this broadcast goes through, things are going to get crazy.”

Richie doesn’t need to be told twice. He shakes Cooper’s hand and heads to the stairwell. Elevators are probably overloaded and he doesn’t want to risk some kind of shutdown. He hops down the stairs two, three at a time. He’s out of breath by the time he reaches the ground floor. He bursts out into utter chaos, people running everywhere, and a couple yelling at security. The guy is an angry spitfire and Richie smiles fondly at the New York spirit. The world is ending, but here’s this guy yelling at people who are just trying to do their jobs.

The woman looks his way and Richie stops breathing.

Beverly.

Fuck.

He looks back at the guy, and it’s obvious now. That’s Eddie. Eddie fucking Kaspbrak.

Beverly pulls Eddie by the back of his shirt collar and makes her way to Richie. She looks like a fiery goddess. “Richie,” she says, like they’ve not spent at least two decades on different ends of the country, “we need to go.”

“Go where?” He croaks out. He’s smiling at Eddie trying to extricate himself from Bev.

“Fuck if I know,” Beverly says. “But I do know we have to go. Now.”

+

_This is a transcript of a recovered video file from 02/13/2016, originally aired on all NBC owned stations and affiliates, available on the NBC website until the government shutdown on 02/18/2016._

_[focus on the news desk, two anchors are sitting at the table, Anderson Cooper is in the frame. He reads from a paper printout instead of a teleprompter.]_

_[the audio fizzes in and out, video is grainy.] state of emergency. The federal government is ordering a curfew to be [a long pause with no audio] asks that people stay inside their homes. Anyone afflicted should seek immediate [audio cuts out] for our own safety [audio cuts out, there’s some commotion in the background] please stay safe out there. Be careful. Do not approach anyone who appears to have flu-like symptoms [audio cuts out, masked people with guns move in behind Cooper] [the video cuts out completely]_

_The video can be accessed with special research permission by the historical council of New New York._


End file.
